


in my heart and dreams you stay

by goldfishtobleroneandamitie



Series: you're human, so am I [8]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Feuilly can't dance, Grantaire is straight as a circle, M/M, They can't get enough Jesus control yourselves, dance!fic, except with Eponine, some jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 11:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishtobleroneandamitie/pseuds/goldfishtobleroneandamitie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Amis go to a nightclub, Eponine loves to dance, and Feuilly gets jealous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in my heart and dreams you stay

**Author's Note:**

> “I will recall the gypsy dance and fire,  
> and if you’re gone I will be sad and tire,  
> for in my heart and dreams you stay,  
> and we can dance the night away,  
> in dreams.”
> 
> -“Gypsy Dance”, Bernard Kennedy

Feuilly hasn’t the foggiest idea how Bahorel and Éponine convinced him to come out tonight.

He’s pulled four days of fourteen-hour shifts at the shop and he has a paper due for Religious Illumination in the Fourteenth Century on Monday. Also, it’s a nightclub, which has never really been his scene.

But the entirety of the Amis has turned out in force, headed by Courfeyrac—who’s making out with Jehan in the middle of the dance floor anyway. Even Enjolras is here, and he’s regaling the bartender with rhetoric about capital punishment.  She doesn’t seem to mind, though, judging by her rapt stare at Enjolras’s best impression of a Greek god. This, in turn, is probably why Grantaire’s drinking even more heavily than usual.

It’s rather embarrassing how oblivious Enjolras is, to be honest; Feuilly’s no Doctor Phil, and he’s perpetually running on coffee and pizza, and yet he’s _still_ figured out that their resident cynic drinks more when his Apollo is not around, and needles him during meetings for the sole purpose of catching Enjolras’s attention, even if it’s exasperated and brief.

Grantaire is pathetic in the worst way—not in a sarcastic, biting way, but literally pathetic, like a dog begging for scraps from his master’s table. He and Combeferre—the levelest heads in their band—need to stage one of their biannual interventions soon; they’re about due anyway.

The last one resulted in Jehan and Courfeyrac consummating their uncomfortably noticeable sexual tension, and this one needs to have a similar effect or Feuilly might punch either Enjolras or R or both—the latter for being an idiot, and the former for letting him. Enjolras is the leader, and he may be socially incompetent but there’s no excuse for letting Grantaire act the way he does.

However, it doesn’t look like discussion of an intervention is in the cards tonight, since even Combeferre’s been dragged off to dance by a pretty redhead with curves to beat the drum. He looks ridiculous, and Feuilly smiles into his beer watching them.

Bahorel, his usual wingman, is hitting up a set of twins down the bar, and Feuilly’s glad, not for the first time, that they don’t live together anymore. Though they’d both agreed to a sexiling policy, Bahorel took advantage of it far more often than Feuilly did and often at most inopportune times. His apartment now is smaller and older, but it’s neater since the jolly giant doesn’t leave his things everywhere, and he can make as much noise as he wants, when he wants.

(unless the tenants underneath bang through the ceiling, which makes him feel as if the floor’s going to fall in. He generally keeps pretty quiet).

(Unless Eponine’s over, in which case he really doesn’t care what the neighbors think.)

* * *

 

Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet have created their own mosh pit by the edge of the writing mass of dancers, jumping up and down to the point where he feels they’re tempting fate given Lesgle’s luck. Éponine’s with them, and Grantaire seems to have shaken off some of his melancholy and has pushed off from the bar towards where the little group is dancing.

Ep had tried to drag him out earlier, but Feuilly’s no dancer, and his muscles are well-near shaking with exhaustion. So he’d begged off to sit on his barstool blearily, drinking a Full Sail and watching Éponine move. She’d left him with a searing kiss, assuring him that her invitation remained open, and moved onto the floor.

His Éponine does love to dance, to dance for the sake of the movement and the thrum of the beat in her soul, as she’d told him once. She has a way with words he cannot match—not poetry and rhyme the way Jehan does, but words roll off her tongue with a peculiar lyricism that allows him to listen to her rant for hours. It matters little what she actually says, sometimes, but the rise and fall of her voice captures his mind and, if he lets it, can lull him into a dream state.

He’s in a bit of a dream state now—the music is so loud that talking would be impossible, the alcohol is running pleasantly through his system, and he’s watching the dancers move hypnotically. One in particular.

She may love to dance, but he loves to watch. Like right now, her inky hair having fallen out of its bun, her light-brown skin glistening with sweat, her criminally short skirt swaying as she moves _,_ and the flashing lights painting her shoulders and hair blue, purple and red.

She is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in that moment—a phantom from a dream, thrilling through his blood more powerfully than alcohol ever could.

She’s dancing in a group of their friends, so she’s been mainly avoiding propositions all night. However, the music’s recently shifted from bouncing pop to a deeper, grittier, more visceral beat, and the group is starting to pair off and the entire writhing mass is pushing closer to each other.

Somewhere in the interim, Grantaire has joined the group on the floor, and as the loose ring of people starts to gather into twos and threes he sees the taller man pull Eponine up against him. She reaches back, eyes closed, and grips the back of his neck.

The jealousy Feuilly feels is hot, fast, and immediate. He knows rationally that Grantaire is both straight as a circle and hung up on Enjolras, and that he and Eponine have been dancing partners for longer than she’s been dating Feuilly, but some combination of the alcohol, the music, and the movement of Eponine’s hips have him off his barstool and over to his girlfriend in seconds.

Grantaire sees him coming and releases Eponine; her eyes, closed up till now, open in confusion until she spots Feuilly. Her smile is radiant even in the black lights, and she grips his hand, spinning into his arms. She pulls his other hand around to wrap around her waist, reaches back, threads her fingers through his hair, and begins to dance again.

Feuilly may not be a dancer, but he knows _these_ age-old steps, and he buries his face in Eponine’s neck as the drumbeat rises through their feet and resonates between their bodies. There’s no available space between them; her back is so perfectly fitted for his front that he feels as if they’re welded from shoulder to knee, and he loves it.

Her fingertips are pressed against his scalp, and his hair, already beginning to gather with sweat, is tangled in her hands. His hands around her waist are burning, burning, from the unadulterated heat that radiates from every pore. They may be surrounded by a crush of people, a sea of humanity, but in this moment it’s just _them_ and the fire they’re creating and volleying between them.

Eponine is laughing—he can feel the movement of her back against his own—and she grips his hair impossibly tighter, ratcheting the tension between them up a notch. The drumbeat is thrumming, the lights are flickering, and all Feuilly can see is her eyelashes against her cheek, all he can smell is her perfume, and all he can think about is that she’s pressed against _him,_ no one else, that of all the millions of men she could have chosen this goddess has bestowed her presence on Gael Feuilly. His hands tighten on her waist, and her laugh transmutes seamlessly into a breathy moan.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t stiffen immediately, both physically and…metaphorically. Heat rushes through his veins like molten iron has replaced his blood, and the girl in front of him is taking that heat, multiplying it, and sending it back into him through the thousands of nerve endings that feel welded together. Everywhere they touch feels like a live wire; they spark, sending heat and pleasure and electricity between them with every movement.

He has absolutely no idea how long they move like that, but it’s long enough that he’s covered in sweat and he’s mouthing her neck, and when he feels her moan from it he realizes vaguely that they’re probably edging into PDA territory even for such an establishment as this. He leaves off with a final kiss to her pulse, then spins her around, sliding his hands around her wrists before tugging her gently but insistently off the dance floor.

She goes willingly, though, and starts on his own neck as he throws bills on the bar to pay his tab and really it’s a miracle he gets her out on the street before lifting her and pushing her against the side of the building.

Her moans are edging into obscene now, and _Jesus_ her skin is the strangest combination of burning and cold from wind-chilled sweat he’s ever felt. He absolutely knows that sex against a wall is both illegal and probably unhygienic, but it’s damn tempting anyway.

Instead, he flags down a cab, and manages to get his mouth free (Eponine’s doing her best impression of a jellyfish) long enough to tell him his address. Gavroche is at her place tonight, with a girl from down the hall named Beth, and he’s made his bed and changed his sheets in the last two days; he’s _been_ ready. Tomorrow’s Saturday, anyway, and he’s happy to pay the extra thirty dollars that Beth will charge to stay the night.

He pays the cabbie, who’s clearly judging them with an air of _oh, you crazy kids,_ but Feuilly honestly doesn’t care at this point because the heat between them has done nothing if not increase. She literally drags him up the stairs, barely avoiding the loose step, and he gets the door open by the grace of God.

As soon as he’s inside, he hoists her around his waist, and she’s wrapped around him as he trips and twists to land them on the couch instead of the floor. She’s nipping and biting at his neck, and he knows his groans will get him dirty looks from his neighbors in the morning, but she’s getting loud too and it only urges him on. He somehow, with the greatest force of will, is able to tug her off the couch and through the apartment, and by the time they reach the bedroom door she’s lost her shirt and both her shoes and is tugging off his T-shirt.

Feuilly would think she was beautiful wearing a burlap sack— _does_ think she’s beautiful in sweatpants—but she’s wearing black lace that snaps in front and he’s pretty sure his brain just broke. She’s scrabbling along his midsection underneath his shirt, trying to get her fingers under the hem and swearing colorfully at the lack of buttons.

He’s way too busy staring at the way her breasts are swaying in their confinement to do much more than lift his hands as she wrestles it over his head. She goes for his belt next, but he grabs her wrists before she gets to it because they need to slow down before he disappoints them both.

Instead, he claims her mouth again, smoothing his tongue along her lower lip and letting his hands trail up her sides. He feels his callused fingers catch on her silken skin, but she doesn’t seem to mind because her arms snake around his neck and her tongue twines with his.

This is Feuilly’s personal heaven, here with this woman wrapped around him as closely as physically possible, fusing her mouth to his like he’s nourishment and she’s starving. They’re still urgent now, but slower, and she tugs him down with practiced hands rather than frantically. They divest each other of the rest of their clothes in short order, foil is ripped and condoms are applied, and he seats himself inside her with a groan.

Eponine watches from underneath him, one hand wrapped behind his neck and the other stroking down his chest. Feuilly’s eyes, usually such a warm brown, are black and sparking out from under his red fringe. His chest hair rubs roughly between her fingers and he lets his head fall forward, murmuring a combination of endearments and curses into her neck.

“Jesus _fuck,_ Eponine…so beautiful…”

He braces himself on one arm and snakes the other hand down, tracing lines down her body that he follows with his mouth. She can hear breathless moans and only realizes then that they’re coming from her; they’re in perfect counterpoint with Feuilly’s worshipful expletives. It is bare minutes before light explodes behind her eyes, and he follows quickly, with a stuttering shout that he muffles in her shoulder.

They lie there together, him draped across her in a comforting, solid weight, as she plays with his hair. They’re both breathing hard, and she’s still quaking from the aftershocks as he drags his hand slowly back up her side to bury in her matted hair.

“I love you,” she murmurs. It’s the first time she’s said it first.

“I love you,” he replies, and she can feel his smile in her shoulder.

They fall asleep like that, matted with sweat and sex and covered in her hair, his hand  tangled in the short hairs by her neck, and her hands are curled in loose fists on his chest, wrapped around each other.

**Author's Note:**

> ...so. Yeah. This is the first smut I've ever written, so...feedback would be great? I'm really not sure how to feel about this right now, but I definitely think that it's an important part of their relationship to show. Anyway, I hope you liked it :)
> 
> -star


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